Tooth and Claw
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Alabama, 1994. After a hunt gone bloody, the Winchesters recover in a small town where John picks up on a Big Cat hunt, and the boys find themselves at a new school, facing another animal legend, the Belgreen Bear. Hurt!Dean. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** By my estimate, I've determined my setting to be Fall, 1994, with Sam being 11 and Dean, 15. I'm using some local legends, primarily the legend of the Belgreen Bear and the cryptid Big Black Cats of Alabama, for this story, and that means some of the places mentioned are real, but fictionalized for story-telling purposes. ~ Written for 2012's SPN-Gen-BigBang.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _Supernatural_, and I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

_**Tooth and Claw**_

"…_Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw…"_

- from"In Memorian A.H.H" by Lord Alfred Tennyson

* * *

**NOW**

* * *

At the top of the pole was a light, a white gold glow haloing the rectangular sign below announcing the name of a school of no consequence. The light flickered, jittered, and spat, as if it were swatting at the swarm of moths. But, there was no angel waiting, no demon on the prowl. The light had always flickered, always would, and it didn't mean a thing.

"Something's changed," Sam disagreed.

Dean raised a brow at his brother, but Sam was still staring upward, squinting through the night at the sign, specifically at the words, in bold blue font, beneath "Belgreen High School" and above the arrow pointing to the country road across the four-lane highway. Dean caught on. "Won the State Championship. Good for them," but he was already done with the conversation. "I'm surprised you remember the place. You were, what? Twelve? We weren't there long."

Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him. "Eleven. And, there was a hunt," he stated, in answer.

The Impala moaned as both men stepped out into the chill night. It wasn't late into the evening, but Fall brought with her early sunsets and clear, starry country skies. Dean gave the front of the gas station a passing glance. The middle-aged attendant looked vaguely familiar, and he wondered if the same kid-turned-man was still working the register after all these years. The thought alone had Dean pulling free plastic to pay at the pump.

"I didn't realize the route would take us through here until we'd already crossed into the county, Dean. It wasn't on purpose. I wouldn't make you come back here."

"It's no problem, Sam."

Sam let out a heavy sigh. It was a comforting sound for Dean, because it was always the same, even after all these years; all the death and change and…that little detail, that sigh, remained the same.

"I mean it," Dean said, and forced a tight grin. "Seriously, man. I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of it. Thought you liked the school."

"Because." Sam leaned against the side of the Impala, shoulder to his brother's. "When Dad brought us here, it was right after what happened to Christopher. Wasn't exactly a great time for you."

Dean figured that Hell and Heaven and everything in-between would kind of make all that came before dull, colorless, but he could still remember every detail about some of their earliest hunts. And, he could certainly still remember what Sam was talking about. Could still taste the rock salt from when he'd landed on the floor, sucking in a breath of dust and their only protection, his arm beneath him, his vision blurry, but his ears just fine as he listened to Christopher scream.

"Yeah, I forgotten that part," Dean lied, and screwed the gas cap back on. He gave the sign another glance. The light above was still flickering. "Go Bulldogs." He snorted and elbowed Sam. "Hey, I wonder why they never changed their mascot to a bear."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Let's go."

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

**THEN**

* * *

Fall 1994

_The moonlight fell at his back, leaving his body a shadow outlined in white. Dean recognized that it was his father's form standing at the front door, but he didn't move to greet him. He stayed in place, sitting on the creaking wooden boards, breathing in the old house's musty air, his back pressed against the wall, throbbing arm held against his aching chest. The half circle of salt remained intact. Protecting him from—_

_The ghost was gone, but he stayed in place. Silent. Waiting for something. He let his eyes fall from his father to the spot on the floor across from him. It was smeared in blood. Blood that wasn't his._

_His father's eyes followed the trail. Saw the body._

"_Son," he said—growled. Like the word was a curse. "What happened?"_

"_Christopher," Dean answered. The sound surprised him, and he blinked to awareness, as if he hadn't quite been sure he could still speak. "Christopher followed me here."_

_His father's shallow breathing was loud as he moved forward, surveying the damage, determined what to do next, as he always did so quickly. John paused, though, not going straight to task, unable to lift his eyes off the other boy's scattered remains._

"_Damn it, Dean."_

"Damn it, Dean."

His father's growl woke him from his dazed half-sleep. Dean jerked up in his seat, slamming back into the now: Impala, a dusk so foggy it could have been twilight, the musk of manure on a cow pasture slipping in through the cracked window. And, then the burn at his fingertips, where he'd squeezed the paper cup too tight, sloshing coffee over the rim.

John sighed from the driver's seat, shaking his head. "Drink up," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Dean muttered, fighting back a yawn, and tackling the drink for a second time. It wasn't scalding hot anymore, thankfully. "How long?"

John kept his eyes on the road but lifted a hand off the steering wheel long enough to swipe the grit out of his lashes and pull his thumb and index down the sides of his mouth, over a three day old beard. "About twenty minutes. Finish your coffee."

The sun peaked out over the distant tree line in a matter of minutes, as it often did in the Fall, and set the field against the old highway awash with white light. Cattle raised their heads, basking. The grasping shoots of goldenrod against the barbwire fence beside them seemed to catch fire with the glow. Dean winced but forced his eyes to stay open. In the few hours before they'd left Knoxville, while his dad had been running around town, tying up loose ends and making phone calls, Dean had been given a chance to sleep off his pain meds in the motel. A few hours of reprieve, but it still felt as if they'd vanished from Tennessee, moving from mountains to hills to sloping pastures, and Dean had only managed to nod off for a few minutes at a time, despite the pill his father had given him.

Dean wanted to sleep, like the doctor had told him to do. He wanted to sleep and to forget why they'd had to skip town so quickly. Why his father had needed to pull a few favors to get them a new place set up before morning. But, more than he wanted the sleep, he wanted to not see Christopher Robinson's face; that meant not dreaming.

He downed half his cup, instinct bringing his eyes up. In the rearview mirror, Sam, too much brown hair spilling over his face, mouth lax and legs drawn up to make him look five years younger, was still snoozing against the big cooler in the other seat, as if the crisp breeze didn't bother him in the least. The battered copy of _The Incredible Journey_ he'd been reading in the ER was tucked under one knee.

The image made Dean's throat dry out and his cast suddenly feel heavier, despite the fact that it was currently balanced on a folded towel against the shelf of the side window. Elevated; doctor's orders. He shot his covered forearm an annoyed glance, eyes trailing the scratched knuckles of his fingers up to the plaster, following it to the L at his elbow. His flannel long sleeve was big enough to be rolled up into a thick bunch over the top of the cast. Dean had to fight the urge to pull out his knife and cut the damn thing off before it finished setting. Pain or no pain, he knew he was going to come to hate the constant reminder over the next few weeks.

"I'm dropping you two off at the school first." John's announcement was met with silence. "Someone'll be there to show you guys around—all your paper work's in order. You can give the nurse your pain meds. I'll leave your duffels with Ed's wife. His house is in walking distance. I don't need to remind you what to do when you get there this afternoon."

_Ward the entries. Patrol the grounds. Keep Sammy inside until you're done._

Dean's jaw twitched, but he didn't say the first thing that popped into his mind, didn't offer to skip a few more days of class to help Dad with this other hunt. He was fifteen, had been hunting for a few years now, but he knew, without a doubt, that this move was specifically for him. "Even soldiers need recovery time," his dad had said, when they'd loaded into the car five hours ago. What he didn't say was, "You're broken," but Dean could hear it, just beneath the surface. His dad was letting him off easy.

"What about Sammy's school?"

John snorted. "Told you, Dean, the school's small. Elementary and up, all in the same building. You'll be able to keep a better eye on your brother that way." The man's cheek twitched, but he bit back his amusement so firmly, the expression should have been named The John Winchester. "They don't even have a football team—not enough men. Which is a might bit odd for any place in Alabama."

Dean raised a brow, forcing amusement into his voice. "Jesus, you really are dumping us in the backwoods this time."

John made no comment to the contrary.

His dad had pointed out the main advantage to a small school and conveniently left out the huge disadvantages, like the fact that, in a place this rural, everyone knew their neighbors. That went double for classmates. Or the fact that they were staying with the principal, which would only get the gossip mill cranking out more rumors. Dean pushed a breath out through his nose, holding back the comment—they weren't going to be there long enough for it to be a problem, or else their dad wouldn't leave them there in the first place. Their dad thought things through like that; Dean was the one who didn't consider consequences.

The coffee churned the acid in his stomach. He could taste it on the back of his throat.

Sammy stirred in the back. "'S D'n okay?" came his sleep-slurred voice.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, I'm right here. And, I'm fine. Wipe the drool off your face—we're almost at school, and you'll want to look good when you kiss up to your teachers."

He cocked his head back as best he could without dislodging his elevated arm and saw Sam's eyes go wide as he scrambled to find the ragged backpack behind Dad's seat. The image lightened something in his chest, and he sent his little brother a teasing grin.

"Don't forget to dab some brown on your nose so they see you coming."

It wasn't hard, falling into his role, even with yesterday still weighing heavy on him. Even with the cast reminding him what they'd left behind in Knoxville. Being a big brother was easier than thinking.

"It's not funny, Dean. I haven't even brushed my teeth!" Sam whined, and then seemed to catch himself sounding like a little kid. He huffed, looking for something smart ass to say and coming up short since he was still weary-eyed. "I guess I'm the only one who cares about proper dental hygiene in this family."

Dean snorted; who did the squirt think had forced him to use a toothbrush every morning for the past eleven years? "Don't worry, I'll do something rude so they still know you're the good brother—even without '_proper dental hygiene'_…Jeeze, you've been watching too much PBS, Sammy."

Something seemed to click, and Sam went quiet a moment, sitting up straight in his seat. "You're not going to school today," he announced, in that I-know-everything-already voice that he'd started using recently. "The doctor said you had to rest for forty-eight hours, Dean. That's two days."

Just in case big brother couldn't do the math—Dean rolled his eyes and pretended he didn't notice the way his father's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel. He stepped up to the plate before their dad had a chance. "Sammy, doctors say stuff like that so they don't get sued—we're Winchesters. We don't need two days. I'm good to go—plus I get to use my arm as excuse to not do nothin'. Bet you five bucks I've got a pretty girl copying notes for me by second period."

Sam stuck his bottom lip out, not taking the gamble, but he did cross his arms, his slit-narrow eyes on the rear view mirror, begging his dad to look back and notice him sulking. Dean had been noticing that switch recently, too—one minute Sam was begging for Dad's attention, the next he didn't want anything to do with the man. Dean couldn't say that he liked the subtle changes falling into place, but he figured he must have been the same way at that age. A phase. Isn't that what the counselor at his old middle school had called it? _"Your son is going through a phase, Mr. Winchester?"_ Because no way she knew that Dad was the one who'd had him ditch school early to help with the hunt.

Yeah, Sammy was just going through a phase, too, a little earlier than most. Because, he was Winchester, and they got shit done. Dean nodded at the thought and shifted back into his seat, pretending he wasn't anywhere close to joining Sam in his girly brooding.

His dad drove off the old highway and onto a newer one, and Dean figured they must be close because the Impala had been sticking to county roads all the way down the south-west journey across Tennessee to the farthest northern tip of eastern Alabama. A run-down gas station appeared over the hill top, nestled next to a small church. The sign, announcing the location of Belgreen High School, stood at the edge of the parking lot, pointing an arrow to the far side of the highway, where a narrow road was tucked into a patch of woods. One turn and a few minutes later, the school popped up out of no-where, a U-shaped brick building, one story tall. Across the road, a gravel drive sloped down to a gym parking lot adjacent to a tiny white concrete building with a few cars parked in front of it, despite the hour. The Bulldog Grill was painted in bold blue and gray letters over the front wall, along with a cartoon canine's open, smiling maul.

Bulldogs. Not for the first time. Dean snorted. He owed Sammy a candy bar—he'd bet on tigers as the mascot this time. But, at least there was somewhere to eat close by…though, Dean wasn't sure how much he and Sammy would be able to get away from these people, the Hester family. He felt claustrophobic at the mere thought of being stuck in normal-ville his whole afternoon.

Even though it was a good hour and a half before school started, there were already a few parents, factory workers judging from their rubber boots and hair nets, dropping off their kids. John eased into a spot in the guest parking instead of the drop-off drive. A man was waiting near the front of the building, waving the early students inside, like it was his sole duty to look chipper at ungodly hours of the day. His attention quickly turned to the Impala, and his smile brightened as he trudged across the dew-slick grounds.

Sam was out of the car already, Dean and John moving a second behind him.

"John!" the man greeted.

Dean gave him another once-over. Tall, narrow-shouldered with a pouch of fat at his belly, what was left of his white hair wispy and flying in the breeze, thick glasses on his long nose, Ed Hester didn't necessarily look like an imposing guy, but not all school principals did, Dean reasoned. Ed cupped their dad's hand like it might fall off during the shake and smiled warmly at the family.

"Ed," John said, his voice gravelly. "Thanks for doing this."

Principal Hester patted him on the arm before pulling back. "It's the least I could do after you helped my family—and it isn't a bother at all," he paused to give Dean and Sam a glance and a wink. "I'm not as young as I once was, and I could use two strong backs to help me finish up some projects around the house that Bernie's been hassling me about…You boys excited to be back? Lord, I bet you don't even remember the place, do ya? You were, what, in second grade then? A tiny lil' thing. I'm sure your father filled in the blanks for you, though…"

Filled in the blanks? Dean raised a brow and shot his dad a look. John brushed his fingers through his hair, piping up before his sons had a chance to answer.

"How is Bernadette? Still making those famous biscuits of hers?"

Apparently, he'd forgot to bring some things up during their drive, like about the case he'd helped this Hester guy out with back in the day—and that they'd been at this school before. Dean stared at the front doors of the main building, as if the memories would slide back into place, but he was still drawing a blank. They must not have stayed long back then, either. Still, it wouldn't have killed Dad to bring it up…Even if it was usually a pain, Sam's insistence that he practically interrogate their dad for info would have been useful on the ride here.

But, Dean's thoughts were elsewhere.

Before he realized it, his dad was wrapping up the details with Principal Hester, and promising to grab a sausage biscuit from Bernie when he dropped off their belongings at the house where the boys would be staying. John was standing over his boys an instant later, giving each of them a stern squeeze of the shoulder and a tight smile. He didn't have to repeat himself when it came to the rules, and he wouldn't embarrass them with more affection.

Sam was already chatting up the principal before the Impala roared to life and rolled down the same old road. Dean stared after it a moment, pretending not to notice that he was being left as the other two walked toward the school. It wasn't like he was going to miss the tour.

Dad wasn't coming back tonight. It had sunk in earlier that he and Sammy were going to be stuck with strangers for a few days, but Dean had ignored the voice in his head that said his father had found a new hunt way too fast. That his dad was lying to him. That "I'll just be a couple counties away" meant he was ditching them for a long bender that didn't involve any supernatural occurrences. That Dad might have decided his teenage son had screwed up too badly this last round to ever be left alone again.

No longer elevated, his fingertips past the cast began to tingle.

It wasn't bright out, not with the forest standing tall on either side of the school. Dean studied the shadows in the closest woods, remembering something from long ago, about a barn being to the far side of the school building, not too far from the playground tucked behind the cafeteria. About big kids sneaking off there, and Dean maybe following once. But, the rest was a blur.

"Guess I've been here after all," he muttered. The fragment of the memory wasn't enough to occupy his head for long though. "God. This is gonna suck."

Then he saw it, a shadow on a shadow between two of the trees. It shifted, moving off behind the brush. Crawling. Dean choked on his own words before the curse could slip out—no, it was nothing. Because now that he'd blinked, the area looked too dark for him to make out more than the shape of branches. And, if it was something…it was probably just a dog. It could have been big mutt wandering the grounds for scraps.

It sure as hell wasn't what he _thought_ he'd seen. It couldn't have been a friggin' bear…right?

Dean frowned. Sam would probably know—the kid lived off those nonfiction nature books in the library. And, as if his brother had heard his thoughts, Sam shouted his name across the yard, standing in the open doorway to the main hall as if he already belonged there. Dean rolled his eyes.

"This is gonna suck," he repeated, almost wishing someone was there to hear him.

* * *

This was not where he should be.

John Winchester knew that much, but it didn't slow his steps as he walked around the nose of the Impala, surveying the old pick-up parked further down the fenced-in mud path. He stepped around a deep rut of red clay, eyes ahead as a figure, an elderly man, stepped out of the farming truck. The cool morning had turned into a hot afternoon, as the season tended to lean toward in the South, and the old man was already swiping off his oil-slickened head with a rag.

"You Carpenter?" the man asked and spit a wad of tobacco at the closest patch of weeds. He was on the wrong side of seventy, dark skinned, his knuckles ashy and his palms callused when John took one to shake. "The 'wildlife biologist' who called 'bout seein' where those animals been gittin' attacked?"

John nodded in confirmation. "I'll take that to mean you're Mr. Neilson, the landowner?"

"'Spect so." Despite his curtness, the man's grin was toothy and spotted with gold fillings. "Glad to see someone's taking an interest—'bout time, too. 'Course, I ain't fool 'nuff to think it has to do with my cattle or my dogs. You're here because Widow Upchurch got attacked up in Slickville."

John raised a brow, but didn't give away his surprise. Most people, even in these tight-knit communities, hadn't connected the attacks Mr. Neilson and his neighbors had been reporting off and on to the Alabama Board of Conservation for the last decade with the two recent attacks across the county. "That's twenty miles north."

"I know how to pick up a newspaper, Mr. Carpenter. You're here for her but figure you should start where the attacks been takin' place. Well, you thinkin' right, because wasn't no 'wild hog' that got the widow."

John wasn't much in the mood for a chat. He'd spotted the widow's gardening accident and resulting death in the odd news portion of a paper when he'd stopped at a rest-stop at the state line. It was good luck, too. If he hadn't found a job quickly enough, he'd have been stuck at Ed Hester's place. With his boys. Which was exactly where a good father would have been.

John swallowed down that guilt; could have, would have, wasn't what was happening right now. Right now, he had a case. As soon as he'd passed into the county, he'd made two stops, at the records department and the library, before coming to the conclusion that, as his hunch had insisted, there might be more to these accidents. Part of his optimism had to do with the rumors he'd heard about this area—for the past century, word-of-mouth had passed around a local legend about the area being home to large black cats that were in no way acknowledged by the wildlife experts in the state. 'Course phantom cats weren't anything new. People were always seeing creatures that didn't exist. On occasion, though, those creatures that didn't exist were capable of ripping someone's guts out.

As far as he knew, no hunters had been given enough reason to actually plow through the reports, not when there were always odd occurrences popping up all over the U.S. that were actually attached to an obituary column. That changed with the widow's death. And, after what he'd learned earlier this afternoon, she might not have been the first and only victim.

"I know what you are."

The words stilled John. His gaze narrowed as he looked the old man over again and fought the urge to check for the handgun inside his jacket.

"You're one of those _cryptozoologists_," Mr. Neilson announced, proud of himself. "My granddaughter told me about you fellas. You're looking for somethin' strange, aren't ya? Skunk Ape or somethin'?"

"You caught me," John said, forcing a smirk to his lips.

Mr. Neilson nodded twice. "Knew it, knew it. Well, these knees of mine don't like walking over this part of the property no more. Gonna let you get down to it. Hope you find what you're lookin' for, Carpenter."

"I will," John assured. The old man was already turned back toward his truck, and didn't notice the threat for what it was, or that it had been directed toward the tree line.

Days were getting shorter, and the sun would be setting soon enough. He had brought flashlights for the occasion. It wasn't the safest move, being out here at night before he knew what he was hunting, but then again, jobs never got finished if one was overly precautious—silver, iron, and salt seemed like just the right amount of precaution. And he already knew for a fact he wasn't going to make it back to Belgreen tonight. Or tomorrow night. He needed the time for research, for clearing his head of the mess he'd left behind in Knoxville and filling it back up again with the task at hand.

God, he didn't want to admit it, but Dean was the other reason he didn't want to head back just yet. Maybe the main reason.

Both his boys used to look at him in reverence, like sons so often do when they're young and stupid, but Sam hadn't been able to suspend believe once he got a good taste of normal in the public school system. Dean, on the other hand…Dean still looked at him like his word was law, and that's exactly the way he'd raised him. But, John had the feeling that the next time his eldest stared him in the eye, some of that respect would be gone.

_The smell of blood hung in the house like perfume. John saw his son first, the other boy second. The pieces fell into place quickly enough. Christopher—the kid's name was Christopher, the only person Dean had mentioned more than once since they arrived in town—was in…pieces. Christopher had followed his boy to the house and now the kid was dead. Christ, how could Dean have been so stupid? How many times did he have to tell the boys to watch what they said around… _

_John couldn't lift his eyes from the corpse to see that Dean was hurt and frozen in place. When he finally did look his way, it was because Dean had spoken again._

"_What if it had been Sammy?"_

_It wasn't an accusation, but John heard it as one. It angered him, the very idea, and he tried to cover it. Failed. "Get moving. We need to clean this mess up."_

Of all the dumb-shit moves he'd ever made, putting his wounded son to work was nearing the top of his list. Putting his wounded son to work on a clean-up that involved his dead friend. Between the adrenaline and the fear, what he'd done to his son didn't sink in until he was already at the hospital, and the litany of grievances all seemed to boil down to that one repetition playing in the back of his mind: _What if it had been Sammy? What if it had been Sammy? What if…_

Fuck. What if it had been _Dean_, peeled and spilled on some dusty floor?

John felt the liquor he'd swallowed between County Records and the Neilson property boiling its way back up his throat, but he didn't retreat. You didn't leave a job unfinished, and John sure as hell was planning to keep busy as long as he could manage.

* * *

**End Notes:** This story is a total of 4 chapters long, so stay tuned for for the rest. I hope you enjoyed this! Comments are love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _Supernatural_, and I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 2**_**  
**_

* * *

Dean slid against the side of the building, pressing his shoulder blades against the brick wall behind him. He tilted his head back, hearing the call of his name from the front doors, and firmly ignoring it. No, he wasn't hiding from a girl. He told himself as much, but that didn't make it any truer. He was _definitely_ hiding from a girl, but there was no way he'd ever admit to doing more than loitering after hours.

He peeked out long enough to see a thick black ponytail as the girl, still dressed in the skimpy blue uniform she was wearing to cheerleading practice, all but ran down the sidewalk to the stairs of the tunnel that passed beneath the old county road and out the other side to the gym and student parking lot. No doubt, she thought she'd missed him.

"Jesus H. Christ," he muttered. "That chick's crazy."

Her name was Jerry Lynn, and the first day of class, he'd been damn pleased to meet her. For starters, she'd offered to give him a copy of all her notes as soon as she ran her eyes down him, and with a leer and a suck of her cherry-balm lip, she'd told him she'd be more than willing to help him with his homework, since he couldn't do any of the writing while his lead arm was in a cast. Dean Winchester was not a guy to pass up such a tempting offer, but by day three, when she started doodling hearts onto his cast and shooting every girl who came near him the evil eye, he started to understand why Jerry Lynn didn't have a boyfriend. The word clingy was too kind. Obsessively possessive seemed to fit the bill.

Any other time, Dean would have just said something embarrassing about her waistline or her hair in front of her friends—an easy, if cold, method for ditching someone who was getting too close—but, frankly, he was too tired, too drained, to put in the effort. Still, it might beat hiding from her after school while he waited for his geeky baby brother to finish helping out the librarian.

"Dean?"

Dean popped out from the side of the building, a crooked grin on his face. The expression was force, the way it tended to be of recent. "Mrs. Queen kick you out of the stacks already? You spend much more time volunteering to help her and she's going to think you have a crush."

Sam blushed but hid it with a raised brow. He skipped down the steps, shifting the heavy backpack across his shoulders for comfort. "Were you hiding back there?"

"Hiding?"

"From Jerry Lynn," Sam supplied, sounding a bit too pleased with himself. "She's gone now, you know. Why are you hiding from a girl anyhow—I thought you liked girls?"

And the way he said that part, with a frown, still showed he hadn't quite picked up a decent affection for the fairer sex yet. Nevertheless, he was still stuck too firmly between the "cooties" and the "peeking a look down a blouse" phases of life to commit to being completely disgusted by his brother's new conquests.

Stupid small schools—his relationship status spread like wildfire, and it wasn't just limited to the usual gossips. Dean knew as much when a girl in the sixth grade passed him a note asking him if he'd date her when he broke up with Jerry Lynn. Not that he was actually going out with Jerry Lynn. Jesus. The price of being the mysterious new guy. He should have known this was going to be a problem on his first day, when, by lunchtime, a couple of seniors he'd never spoken to were asking him questions about his dad's Impala. What, were these kids training to be spies or something?

"Shut up, squirt," Dean snapped. Not his best rebuttal. He fell in line beside his brother, wrapping his good arm around the kid's neck to roughly ruffle his hair. "You got homework?"

"Finished most of it. I need to study for my history test. You?"

Dean shrugged. This time, Sam let him get away with it. "Wanna hang out at the grill a while?"

"Nah."

But that didn't mean he wanted to head back to their current living quarters either.

It wasn't that Ed and Bernie weren't good company—Ed wasn't even home most of the afternoon to pester them about school, since, apparently, being a principal meant planning meetings and finishing paperwork, even outside of school hours. But, Bernie spent most of her day sewing quilts and visiting what she proudly called her "old hens circle" down at the local church. The Hester house itself wasn't the most exciting place, either. For starters, they didn't have a television since their two kids had moved out to college. Who the heck didn't have television?

The grill had turned into a pretty okay place—because, yeah, they had a bulky TV in one corner and always had it turned to Nickelodeon unless there was a basketball or football game taking place. But the problem with heading to the lone restaurant in the small community was that everyone else headed there too.

Everyone included his fellow classmates. With a couple acceptations, Jerry Lynn amongst them, they were nice people. That was part of said-problem. Nice people wanted to make friends. Dean didn't. The last and only time he'd really tried to, it hadn't ended well. It had ended bloody.

Dean shivered, his whole body going cold, but he covered it by nodding in the direction of the Hester home.

He and Sam trudged down the side of the road, picking up chiggers and seeds on their jeans as they shuffled through the weeds. It wasn't a particularly long walk, but they knew how to spread it out. Weariness seemed to line his boots with lead. Dean moved so slowly he finally came to stop, staring off into the woods along the side of the school. Sam took the hint and trudged past a few trees until he found the flat-topped limestone boulder he'd claimed as his favorite reading spot. It was what Dean had considered a safe enough place for disappearing, the road still visible through the trees, the school and house both a two minute run in opposite directions.

Dean plopped down onto the leafy ground beside the rock, picking at the thick moss growing up its stained, jagged side.

"Mrs. Queen let me check out this new book she just got in called _The Giver_—I mean, it's not _all _new, just new to their library, which is kind of tiny, so I guess that's why they don't get stuff in for a while, but, still, I haven't read it yet. It's supposed to be good but kinda weird, and she said I might like it."

"Cause you're kinda weird?" Dean supplied, cutting off the rambling story.

He felt a pebble drop down onto his shoulder a moment later and chuckled.

"No, jerk, because I'm at a higher reading level, and I can let her know if it's any good," Sam snapped. But he went quiet a moment later, his breathing easing as he settled down to enjoy the dull Fall sunlight while he still could. Dean heard a page flip and realized he was on his own.

"_Your brother's smart."_

_Dean rolled his eyes, but he felt pride swell up in him. Hell, yeah, his Sammy was smarter than the other kids in his classroom—had a smart mouth, too. He didn't need to be told as much. "That's why his middle name is Geekboy."_

_Christopher chuckled, plopping down on the bleachers and somehow managing to stretch himself out across four, despite the fact that he was nearly a head shorter, if only a year younger, than Dean._

"_So, I guess your dad decided to stay longer?"_

"_Yeah, well, he found work in the area."_

_Dean could barely say that with a straight face, but it was true enough. His dad had skipped straight from one hunt about two hours off, to one that was practically in their new backyard. If they were lucky, that would mean sticking around another few months. Sam insisted it was some kind of sign, that they'd stayed through half the summer and were starting a new school year here; the kid was sure it meant their dad was going to make sure they spent a whole year here. Dean didn't bother to disappoint him, because he was kind of wishing for the same since he'd managed to make a friend._

"_That's cool." Christopher supped on his Coke. "Mom's gonna expect you to stay on then. You've got her and the other waitresses charmed over at Buckeye's."_

_Dean chuckled. He'd picked up the dishwashing job at the steakhouse to make sure that Sammy got to stay somewhere with a damn good AC unit. Their father had ordered them to fill the summer with his training, but he was rarely there to implement the hard stuff. Dean had plenty enough time to work for cash under the table and keep Sammy in shape, too._

_Somewhere along the line, he'd also made time to hang out with Christopher—thankfully, the guy didn't think it was weird that Sam had to go with them everywhere. He must of figured it was a little brother thing, since he didn't have one of his own. Dean had thought about ditching the guy—after all, he'd known better than to get close to people in the past, but for some reason, he always went along with it when Christopher wanted to hang out._

"_I don't like that your dad put you into my school."_

_Dean raised a brow at the statement, but he had already caught the hint of a grin on Christopher's face. He followed his gaze to the girls practicing their baton tosses out on the field; more than a few of them were shooting the pair smiles._

"_Now none of the other guys'll have damn chance," Christopher lamented._

_Dean raised a hand of welcome to the girls past the bleachers. Okay, so maybe he hadn't been able to attract much—read: 'any'—attention from the opposite sex in the past, but his hormones weren't going to let him play it humble now that his buddy had pointed out a couple possibilities. Maybe sophomore year wasn't going to be so bad, after all. It was the first time he could honestly say he was going into a school where someone already knew him, where he already had a friend, and now, apparently, there were chicks digging him._

_He winked at the closest brunette, playing it cool. She actually blushed—score one for Winchester!_

"_Damn straight. But don't worry, I'll save you one, Chris."_

_Christopher elbowed him. "Gee, thanks."_

_Dean threw his head back and laughed._

"_Seriously, though, I hope your dad keeps his new job."_

_Dean nodded. "Yeah. I think I'd like to stick around awhile."_

"…Only about forty-five minutes away."

Dean blinked, rubbing the grit out of his eyes. "What?"

Sam huffed. "You're not even listening to me!" But before Dean would say anything else, Sam fell back into this comment. "I _said_, Florence is only about forty-five minutes away, and Bernie said she and Ed sometimes drive out that way for shopping, 'cause there's not really anything good close by. Do you think they might take us the Renaissance Faire? It's only two weeks away, fourth weekend in October."

The kid was a walking tourism pamphlet.

"You're just dying to slip on a pair of tights aren't you?"

Sam slid off the limestone, a frown set on his face. "You don't have to dress up, stupid. It would be fun. My teacher is giving everyone who goes extra points." He seemed to realize that argument wouldn't win him any favors, so he rolled his eyes. "The kids in my class said they sell giant turkey legs there."

While Dean had to admit that sounded intriguing, he couldn't draw up the enthusiasm he could usually fake for whatever was Sammy's current endeavor. "Dad'll never hand over the money."

"It's free to go to." Sam pouted, nudging Dean's thigh with the toe of his shoe to keep his attention. "And maybe Dad can take us, instead."

"He's got a hunt, Sammy."

"Yeah, but he might be done by then—and even if he's not, he could take off one day. It's _just _one day. Maybe not even a whole day. Maybe just a few hours, and then—"

Dean cut him off. "Dad's not going to go for it." When he saw the hurt expression on his brother's face, he sighed. "But maybe you can trick him into it… You know, there's tons of ghost lore for that area. Maybe if you mention it, he'll be okay with cruising around Florence for a day."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly looking his age. "I don't want to look up stupid ghost lore—that's the opposite of what I want to do if we go!" His nostrils flared out almost comically. Dean was ready to point as much out when Sam opened his mouth again. "Haven't _you _had enough of ghosts for a while?"

Sam's eyes widened, as if he'd just heard himself, but it was too late. Dean was already at his feet, trudging off through the woods. He could hear Sam's quick footsteps as he picked up his stuff and ran to catch up with him.

"I didn't mean it that way, Dean," he called. "Slow down!"

Dean sped up, slapping away a tangle of briars that tried to cling to his cast. His fingertips stung from the move, but he wasn't acting entirely on anger, keeping adjacent to the road, instead of heading deeper into the forest—after all, Sammy was still behind him. Way behind him, he hoped.

The movement caught the corner of his eye, and Dean came to a sudden stop, staring out into the woods.

The bear stared back at him from fifteen feet away.

It was a massive creature, even still on all four legs, and it seemed to shift its weight under his examination, its brown, gray-tipped fur rippling over layers of fat. Its mouth was lax, no hint of a roar, despite the long yellow teeth peeking out from its black and pink maul, and its eyes were warm and deep, watching him with curiosity. It shook out its head, hair at its thick jaw standing on end, groaning slightly with the movement, and then strained its neck, as if pointing to its left.

_Follow me_, the gesture seemed to say.

Something brushed over him, warmth like summer sun against his face. It went against his training, but Dean couldn't stop himself. He took a step forward and froze again. A noise pulled him from the moment; it was the sound of Sam's feet stomping down twigs. He brother almost ran into his side in his haste.

"Dean, I said I'm—"

Whatever need he'd felt to get closer to the bear was gone in an instant, taken by the surge of protectiveness pumping through him. Fingers tightening on his brother's shirt, Dean tossed Sam behind him, ready to go for the knife he kept hidden in his boot, but by the time he glanced back up, the bear was gone, not even a shaking branch or the crunch of dead leaves announcing the direction of its departure.

"Dude, what the hell was _that_?" Dean let out a shallow breath. "It was huge!"

Sam pulled free from his grasp, smoothing a hand over his wrinkled shirt. "God, Dean, that _hurt!_ You don't have to be a butthead just because you're angry with me."

Dean blinked, confused by the outburst. "Uh—I'm sorry if I was a little too _distracted_ to be gentle with you, _Samantha_, but there was a goddamned _bear _in front of us!"

Sam wrinkled his nose; it was a sure sign he was about to go from whining to bitching. "Really, Dean? You're going to pretend you saw the Belgreen Bear? That's lame, even for you."

"The Belgreen Bear?" Dean frowned. "Then there really is a friggin' grizzly bear out here? In _Alabama_?"

"Very funny, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes when his brother's expression didn't change. "I heard the local legend on my second day here, too, you know. I'm not an idiot. I expect the other high schoolers to try and trick the little kids into believing there's a stupid bear around the playground or a boogieman in the woods, but did you honestly think _I'd_ fall for it?"

"Sammy, I swear, there was a bear—"

But Sam was already shuffling past him, dragging his half-zipped bag against the ground. "I get it—you're pissed at me, but you don't have to act like a jerk about it. I said sorry." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed and red beneath his dark lashes. "Christopher was your friend, but I liked him, too, you know."

Then he disappeared around a patch of dying blackberry bushes, still huffing. Dean stared after him, rubbing the cast at his arm.

"What the hell?" he whispered. No one answered.

* * *

Moonlight sliced through the growth, leaving the waving branches, the tickling switches, and the looming limbs looking all the more menacing, but John Winchester was not the kind of man who noticed such imaginative details. He was on a mission, focused, undistracted by irrational fear and uncontrolled by its rational incarnation. With his pack at his side, he hunched low in the deep shadow against a rock embankment, watching for movement. It should have been easy enough to find. Even at the cheap hotel where he was staying, he heard field mice and possums, raccoons and squirrels, on an hourly basis. But here, in this spot, where nature should have been at home, it was far too quiet.

Silence was telling. This was one of the first rules he'd learned as a hunter. It was comparative to knowing when a swimmer needed rescuing. When someone was splashing about, shouting in the water, they weren't in true distress. It was the silence that gave away the drowning. What you didn't hear was just as important as what you did hear.

John kept his breathing slow, wide awake despite the late hour. Adrenalin was pumping through his veins, even if the coffee, and its welcome caffeine, had long since run out. He was almost certain he'd found the right spot tonight. And if he was wrong, he'd do this all over again tomorrow.

It wasn't that he was worried about being gone from his boys too long. At their age, he could leave for months if need be, and Dean would find a way to make it work. But, even though it had only been five days since he dropped them off with Ed, he felt a nagging need to get back to them. Partly, because he had left them with the Hesters. Last time he'd been around the couple, he'd been working a case in their actual house, trying to get rid of a poltergeist they hadn't realized they'd purchased with the property. It would have been an easy enough job if John hadn't thrown his back out when he'd smashed through the front door—damn entity was feisty. He'd healed up in their guest room, the strangers helping him deal with a cranky toddler and a second grader who'd picked just the right time, only a week into starting his new school year, to come down with the flu.

John had spent nearly a month with Ed, Bernie, and their two teens. So, why did he feel so damned regretful about leaving his boys there for a week?

Dean.

John winced, just thinking about what his eldest as seen. He wished he'd taken the boys somewhere they knew, like Blue Earth or Sioux Falls—hell, could there be a better place for Dean to heal up and Sam to cool down than with that noisy, interfering coot, Singer? But that would have meant a rather long drive, and John hadn't been able to stand being cooped up in the car with all those questions flying out of Sammy's mouth and all those broken looks from Dean.

John stomped down that instinct to cut off the hunt and head back north, naming it for what it was: guilt.

As if the world heard the declaration and realized the game was afoot once more, John spotted movement near the old cave, just a shift really, of black on black. It was enough. John pulled up his rifle. He still wasn't exactly sure what he was hunting, but he'd come prepared for nearly anything.

A couple days of research and calls to other hunters had helped him rule out a werecat. As it turned out, werecats were bound by the moon, just like werewolves, and the widow's death had occurred during a waning moon. And her heart had been in place…mostly. A good bit of her torso had been shredded. The papers had tried to cut down on that bit of news. The report said she'd taken a tumble down a steep incline, died, and then was found the next day after the animals had had their pick of her. Only, nothing about that story seemed to add up.

John had checked out the spot where she was attacked—it was the same worn path against the edge of her two acres of land she usually walked daily to keep up her health. From what he could tell, the scuffle had taken place there, and she, and the thing that had attacked her, had tumbled down the ravine together. He'd found a few tuffs of silky black fur, too.

More than enough to go on. But, he hadn't IDed the creature yet. If not a werecat, he was leaning toward a witch's familiar. He knew those bitches liked to get black dogs—didn't seem like a stretch that they'd go for black cats, too, especially considering the lore.

Of course, there was the other option, too. The cat could have just been a cat. They weren't native to this part of Alabama, but cougars and panthers lived in south Florida. Wouldn't be a huge stretch to say one got loose, or maybe some rich shit let his pet go. That theory didn't sit right with John, though, because what he'd noticed on day one was a funny kind of pattern that a wild animal wouldn't be prone to keep.

This thing hunted the Neilson and Pierce properties, had been doing so for decades without getting caught. Barely getting spotted. And then, seven years ago, it had killed a man, Donald Roden, halfway across the county. Now, it had taken the widow—who also didn't live anywhere near its hunting grounds. And the Widow Upchurch and Donald Roden both happened to have worked as loan officers with the same bank in the same town. Hell of a coincidence for a wild animal to be that picky.

_Umph_

It was a throaty sound, and it made every muscle in John's body tense up, because it had come from behind him, not from where he'd seen the movement. He swung his gun around, giving up the ruse and barely taking the time to register the face he saw in the moonglow, one he recognized from a zeroxed copy hanging in his motel room, before he blew its head the hell off.

It had gotten close to him. Too damn close. And it wasn't a cat, big or black. It was a woman, specifically the corpse of Widow Upchurch. The revenant was still, despite the fact that part of its cheek and jaw was still attached to its neck, as if whatever magic had been used to raise it had dispersed.

He was dealing with some kind of witch, of that he was now certain. But what kind of bitch used her own victims as pawns and then just let them drop? He felt a chill run down his back—the same kind who'd stick around to watch the show.

The night air filled with a terrifying scream, the cry of a big cat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _Supernatural_, and I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 3  
**

* * *

"It's a real bear. People have taken pictures and stuff."

Sam raised a skeptical brow at the girl sitting across the table from him, Selina-something with long black hair and a tiny nose. She went back to eating her mashed potatoes without noticing his disbelieving stare.

"Nuh-uh," her cousin Amanda insisted, tossing back her braid. "Uncle Jim just made that up to scare you—it was Timmy making those growling noises outside the Fall Festival last year. Everybody was laughing when you ran in screamin'—I can't believe you fell for it!"

Selina looked appalled by the accusation, her eyes shooting to the boy sitting at Sam's side. Sam was pretty sure Timmy was related to the bunch, too, but he didn't want to ask. Asking just made him feel more like an outsider.

Timmy snorted into his meatloaf. "That was so funny!" A second later, he stole the roll off of Sam's plate, a cocky grin on his face instead of a request for permission. "There ain't a bear," he announced, sagely.

Selina made a high-pitched whine and stood up, leaving the group, as if her dreams had suddenly been crushed. Amanda giggled and joined her, not bothering to give the boys a wave goodbye.

"But there _used_ to be a bear," Timmy finally added, after he'd swallowed a chunk of bread. "That's what I heard. See, apparently, legend has it there was this circus caravan coming through, like forever ago, and it wrecked. Some of the animals got out, but they never caught the bear."

Sam hadn't heard that part yet. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uneasy, and offered up his juice carton to the other boy, to keep his attention. "How long ago?"

"_Real_ long."

Sam was learning about research from his dad. He knew 'real long' was not enough to go on. "So why do people keep saying they've seen it?"

"Mostly it's just people scaring other people." He chuckled, obviously proud of himself for being a part of the tradition. "But, then, there's been a couple guys who saw it for real, I heard. Musta been a ghost or something—do you believe it ghosts?"

Sam's throat went dry. He swigged down half his milk. "Whatever," he said, with a shrug.

"Me neither." Timmy fidgeted, wiping his hands on his jeans. "But, I mean, if I did believe in ghosts, I'd believe in that one. 'Cause, one of the guys who saw it was in my big sister Gina's class, way back when. After he told everybody he saw it, he got so sick that his parents had to put him into the hospital. My uncle said the same thing happened to a guy in his class, way back in the seventies. Only my uncle said that guy never recovered—he mighta been makin' that up to freak me out, though."

Sam lost his appetite and dropped Timmy his cookie. "That's weird," he said aloud, managing to keep his voice steady, despite the way his insides were trembling like Jell-O on a dashboard. "Uh, I gotta go."

This was the third day since Dean had told him about the bear, and it had been two days since either brother had bothered to say more than, "where's my toothbrush" or "do you have lunch money" to each other. Sam had spent his extra time reading his book and helping Bernie pick collard greens from her garden, but he had no clue what his brother was doing with his afternoons. He'd just disappear a while, not even showing up at their rock or the grill.

The first afternoon, Sam had simply made a face and figured Dean was off kissing that Jerry Lynn girl, but by the second day, after Dean walked him home from school, then turned right back to disappear into the woods, he started to get worried. Their dad would get mad, like _real_ mad, if he knew Dean was leaving without telling anyone. And he'd be even angrier to know that Dean wasn't even bothering to help him train.

But Sam could care less about those things. What really worried him was that Dean looked paler with each day, when he trudged in, pretended to eat supper, and fell asleep straight asleep as if he'd just run a marathon. Sam would peek a glance at him while he was sleeping; his cast was still alright, not soggy or cracked, and his fingers weren't even a little swollen, so Sam wasn't sure why his brother was sick.

Sam had asked, but Dean had shot just shot him a look. "What's it matter? You wouldn't believe me anyway. I'm fine, Sammy."

And Sam just figured Dean was acting like a butthead because he was sad about Christopher. It wasn't as if he was crying though—even Sam had cried when their dad told him what happened, but Dean had kept it together. Was still keeping it together. Sam thought that maybe that was what Dean was doing when he went to the woods…Maybe he figured Sam would make fun of him if he saw him crying over someone who wasn't family.

Only, now Sam was beginning to realize that assumption was probably wrong.

Sam knew he wasn't supposed to leave the cafeteria before it was time for the whole class to get up, but he snuck out anyhow. The hall just outside was empty. It led to another corridor that connected to the main u-shaped building, and Sam all but ran to it before he slid down to the ground, sitting just below window height where one corridor broke into another. No one would be using this hall for a while; older kids walked around to the main doors to their classes, and the little kids who marched it daily had already eaten lunch.

When he was alone, he drew his legs up to his chest, breathing into the worn knees of his jeans.

He hadn't believed Dean when he said he saw the bear, not even for a second. Dean loved pranks, even stupid ones, and he especially loved distracting anybody who was acting all 'touchy-feely', so Sam figured that's why his brother had been the boy who called bear. But what Timmy had said, about the guys getting sick afterward…What if there really was something in the woods? Something Dean was looking for. Something Dean was _hunting_.

By himself.

Sam felt pinpricks of heat light up behind his eyes, but he refused to get upset. Instead, he let his anger bubbled up—how dare Dean treat him like a baby, and not let him in on this! Not even tell _Dad!_

"So stupid!" Sam stifled the shout against his knees, but it didn't help any. He was practically shaking with frustration. His brother could have been killed if this was really some kind of spirit or monster.

A part of him wanted to march straight across the campus and pull Dean out of class, but he knew that wouldn't do any good. No, if he wanted to help his brother, the best thing he could do was figure out if there really was a bear here and what could be making Dean sick. He was almost certain Mrs. Queen would let him use the computer after school. And, once he figured out it was real, he needed to call Dad.

* * *

_Nahuales, otherwise known as a Naguals. An ancient Aztec sorcerer who…_

John's pen shot across the paper, jotting down the information. It had taken more than a few phone calls to various hunters, but he'd finally got a hit. After being told he was a dumbass for believing a witch was keeping a giant panther as a pet, of course. As it turned out, the witch _was_ the giant panther. Which made some kind of sense. Apparently, someone with family roots way south of the boarder had conjured up an old hocus pocus that would let them, amongst other things, turn into a beast. One of the most common beasts? A jaguar. Another interesting detail about the Nahual? They were notorious for using their victims as undead servants, which explained why the late Widow Upchurch had been so keen to greet him.

John's mind hadn't quite jumped from North American panther to jaguar, but it was likely he wouldn't have noticed the difference even if he was looking, since it had been too far away and too dark to see the rosettes inside its black fur or notice the shape of its head when he'd spotted the creature a few nights past. The cat had been fast, and he hadn't been able to knick it, but he'd gotten close. And now that he knew what it was, he was certain it would come for him, so long as he put himself out in the open.

"Works for me," he muttered, and took a draw off his glass of whiskey.

His eyes were already reddened from sleepless nights, but there was no way in hell he was letting this cat get away. Nahuales were said to be good or bad— John was leaning toward the idea of them being bad—and they could shift into their chosen form and keep their will about them during the process. They weren't victims turned into raging beasts like werewolves. Which meant _a person _had chosen to murder Roden and the widow for some reason. It was looking like that reason was because the bastard couldn't get a loan. Of all the shit excuses to kill.

John shook his head. People were crazy. People who'd turned themselves into monsters were even crazier.

He tucked his notebook away. His weapons bag was already in the car. These things weren't particularly hard to kill—'_take its head, ya idgit,'_ Bobby Singer had harped, before asking about the boys and getting no answer—and the hunt would come down to a matter of being on his toes. He'd put off returning to his kids long enough. This time tomorrow, he'd be taking them out for burgers, and trying to put a bit of the light back in Dean's eyes.

He slammed the motel door behind him, not hearing the phone ringing from the bedside table.

* * *

"_So, I heard your Dad's been looking at the old Whitfield place. He looking to buy? Settle down and make you throw up a white picket fence?"_

_Dean snorted, dribbled the ball, then made a move around Christopher. He jumped for the shot—and Christopher elbowed him, forcing him back before he could take aim. The basketball bounced off the rim._

"_I think that's called a foul, asshole."_

"_Funny, I think it's called winnin', Dean-o."_

_Christopher laughed at his expression and tried to make a move with the ball now that it was in his possession. Dean jumped up, slapping it back down to the ground before it could get anywhere close to the board._

"_Well, I think it's called angry short people ribbing their betters," Dean said, smirking back._

"_Dinner's ready, boys!"_

_The shout had come from Mrs. Robinson, who was standing in the doorway. Sam was right beside her, this hair covered in flour. Dean's brow lifted at that—how the hell…? And in that second of distraction, Christopher actually made a shot._

"_Ha!" Christopher brushed his sweat-slickened hair back with one hand. "You were saying? About your betters?"_

"_Lucky shit," Dean snapped, but there was no heart behind it. He grinned ruefully. "Now that I know fouls don't count, I'm gonna kick your ass next time."_

"_Promises, promises." But Christopher grabbed him by the arm before he could disappear up the front steps to the Robinson house. "Hey, is your dad looking into that old place for another reason?" When Dean didn't answer immediately, Christopher's gaze narrowed. "I hear it's haunted—people keep trying to blame those disappearances on creepy shit so they don't have to face the idea that we have a psycho next door, so everyone's been talking crazy, bringing up places like the Whitfield house."_

_Dean forced a tight grin into place. "Dude, seriously? You think my dad's checking out a haunted house? Someone's probably trying to hire him to renovate the place. I told you, he does some construction on the side."_

_But something must have shown on his face because Christopher's mouth dropped open in surprise. This was the problem with knowing someone too well, those lies that were second nature around strangers didn't work quite as well after a while. Of course, Dean hadn't run into this particular problem much in the past, since he'd gone to damn fine efforts to keep away from normal happy-shiny-people crap, like making friends outside his family._

"_Dude," Christopher breathed, "is your dad, like, one of those ghost hunters?"_

_Dean hesitated. There were two ways to play this, and neither of them involved the full truth. Dean knew only one of them would satisfy Christopher's curiosity, though. He'd heard his father play this card before, and it hadn't turned out too bad. "It's a hobby, okay," he answered, as aspirated as a spy who'd just turned state secrets. "But don't tell anyone because people already think my family's nuts."_

_Christopher was grinning from ear to ear and looking like Sammy in a new library. "Oh, man, that's cool—does he, like, take pictures of the houses and look for floating orbs and stuff? Is he writing a book, like _13 Tennessee ghosts and Jeffrey_? Because that would be awesome!"_

_Dean nodded, biting his lip to keep from laughing. Yeah, John Winchester, photographer of the dead/children's book author. "It's stupid, really, okay? He just thinks the history behind these supposedly 'haunted' places is cool—guess that's where Sammy got his geek genes. But, don't tell him I told you, Chris. I mean it."_

"_Of course not—you're right. People around here are so religious…they'd probably think he was some witch or somethin'." Christopher slapped him across the back. "So, can we go check out any old haunted houses?"_

_Dean froze, and tried not to let his panic show. "Those places are usually condemned—you could get hurt in 'em. And, my dad likes to do his thing alone—so, don't go out there, okay?"_

_Christopher rolled his eyes. "Chill, alright? I won't. Let's go in before my mom screams her lungs out again."_

"_Did she make pie?"_

"_Well, she knew you were coming over, didn't she?"_

"_Hell yes!"_

Dean wasn't sure when he'd fallen to the ground, but there he was, cheek pressed against the earth, the scent of crushed leaves in his nose, his eyes staring at a side-ways view of the woods. His cast-clad arm was out from under him and resting around his head, and also blocking half the view. He felt the beginnings of panic stirring inside his chest in the form of a quickened pulse, but he stayed perfectly still because something had just touched his hand. Something on the other side of his body had grazed his fingers. And it didn't feel like human skin; it felt like fur.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep his breathing still, and went through the usual line up of questions as quickly as possible: _where am I?_ The middle of the woods. He knew his place. He'd been walking through here for days now. He was dizzy, so he wasn't sure if he knew exactly which direction the school was in, but he could find it. If the thing beside him didn't eat him first.

_How did I get here?_ Last he remembered, he'd been waiting for Sam to get out of the library. The school had emptied fast because of the cold front coming in—and now that he thought about it, he was a little chilly in the light button-up he was wearing—so he was left alone on the school's front lawn, feeling like twice-baked shit, and kicking rocks against the old oak. Then he'd seen something…hadn't he? Had he seen the bear? Had he followed it? He wasn't sure. It should have worried him more that he couldn't remember that much.

And of course, that train of thought led to the most important question: _where's Sammy? _Had he left him at the school? Yeah, he was pretty sure he had—it was something he hadn't done in a long time, ditching him. It was something he hadn't meant to do today, either. But, knowing Sammy hadn't wandered off with him gave him some small comfort—at least that mean he hadn't been eaten by the thing.

The thing being the bear, because Dean was now pretty damn certain that's what it was. His hunch was confirmed when he felt a big paw land on his back, over the soft flesh beneath his ribcage. Claws pressed against him, but not hard enough to dig into his skin. Dean sucked in a breath, eyes widening when the claw ripped his shirt and managed to roll him over in a second's breathe.

"Sh-shit," he muttered, now staring up at the massive maul of the beast. To his shame, his voice was shaking. It took him another moment to realize that wasn't his fault—it was friggin' _cold_. Goosebumps were raised all over his body, his lips and nose numb from sucking in chilled air. "Okay, Yogi…" he tried to coo. "'S okay… nice bear."

He used his good arm, trying to pull himself out the creature's shadow, but it pressed its paw down again, this time on his stomach. The threat was there, and he froze. One angry swipe of those claws would gut him. One push could crush something vital. And Dean…Dean didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do right now.

He'd been around his fair share of monsters. Some of them, most of them, looked a lot like people, but others looked more like animals. None of them had looked like a goddamn grizzly, and he was starting to think this was out of his area of expertise, because usually the monsters just went straight for the kill. This thing though… It didn't put any weight on him, but it shifted, lowering its hind until it was sitting at a lounge, one massive arm holding it up, the other making sure Dean didn't run.

Dean suddenly remembered an illustration of Winnie the Pooh sitting the same way and a hysterical laugh bubbled its way up. He bit it off quickly, fairly certain that, whether it was supernatural or just _oh shit_ a bigass animal, giggling was not in the survivalist's handbook.

The bear opened its mouth wide, a breathy sound leaving it in quick bursts, like it was trying to mock its prey's laughter. A moment later the animal stopped, cocking its head like a puppy, as if it were waiting to see what Dean did next.

"Knew you were real," Dean whispered. _Famous last words_, he thought.

The last three afternoons, he'd spent hours looking for this guy, just wandering aimlessly through the woods, hoping to get another glimpse. And, each of those afternoons, he'd come up short, feeling more and more drained afterward. Dean knew that was his own fault. He'd lost his appetite since… Well, he'd lost his appetite, and the shifty weather, hot one minute, cold the next, was playing games with his lungs. Still, though, he'd gone out to search.

He hadn't told Sam, of course, partly because the squirt was in a sour mood lately and partly because he knew better than to present a hunt without evidence. He knew that his word was usually enough but…Dean wasn't stupid. His head was screwed on wrong this week; he knew that, and so did his family. By that third afternoon, he was even starting to suspect that the bear was a hallucination, built on some gossip about an old legend he'd heard in class. Only…Something drew him to the wood. Some need he couldn't quite name.

And, he certainly hadn't let his little brother see him slip his handgun into his jacket before he headed out—Principal Hester would have a shit fit if he knew his dad had sent a teenage boy into his house armed, hunter friend or no hunter friend. Dean wasn't so bold as to take the gun to school with him; he respected Principal Hester that much. But, now he wished he had kept the weapon in his locker, because here he was in the middle of the woods,_ somehow_, and all he had was a knife in his boot that he couldn't reach, even if he was willing to lose a few feet of intestines in the process.

The bear let out a sharp whine like a yawning dog and lowered its face closer to Dean's. Those honey eyes held his. They seemed so…aware. Dean wondered if this was a bearwalker. He'd heard mention of them before, though, as far as he knew, his dad had never faced a person who turned themselves into a bear.

Dean felt a familiar warmth settle over him, so welcome against the cold. He wasn't sure if it was real or not, but he was sure that now he couldn't move on his own. He blinked lazily, feeling dazed. _I'm in a trance_. It was weird, knowing he wasn't fully in control of himself but not wanting to fight it, even mentally.

_Not kill. Protect. _

Dean wasn't sure where that thought had come from, but he had the oddest feeling it wasn't his own. "The bear's talking to me," he said, his voice slurred. "A bear's talking to me." And then he chuckled like he'd drunk his first mini-bottle of Wild Turkey.

_Not hurt. Heal._

Dean blinked up at the creature, confused. His head fell back against the dirt, his eyes heavy, but he felt a cough building up in his chest, not his first one today. He tried to hold it back and nearly choked on it. The next thing he knew, the bear was leaning over him, resting its head on his chest, as if it were listening to the chorus of rattles and wheezes within.

_Not weak. Strong._

"Not weak," Dean echoed, ignoring the gurgle that came out with the words. Claws clicked against the plaster of his cast. "Strong."

_Teach you._

Dean realized he could move his arm and reached up, running his good hand against the bear's thick neck. The fur was coarse, chilled, nothing like the warmth he felt under the trance. There was something familiar about that chill, but Dean couldn't get that nudging thought to fully form.

"Teach me what?"

_Teach you._

The gentle weight lifted off his body suddenly, the bear watching the woods cautiously. It had seen something, and it snorted in frustration. A second later, it dropped its paw back down onto Dean's stomach, pressing its claws down just enough for three of them to score the skin through his shirt and draw up a red, striped welt. The bear took a lumbering step back and faded away.

Faded. Not walked or crawled, but faded. Dean blinked, letting that part sink in. The warmth he'd felt in the trance had disappeared, leaving him shivering, but still not quite as cold as he'd been around the bear…because spirits sucked the energy out of the air, brought the cold.

Spirits. He'd just had an encounter with a bear spirit.

Dean swallowed, but he couldn't quite gather the strength to get up just yet. He laid still, back against the soil, his hand caressing the stinging mark the bear had left behind.

"Why?"

It didn't make a lick of sense. What did an animal spirit want with him? And why wasn't it trying to rip him apart? And why the hell wasn't he currently running for his weapons so he could hunt it down? That last question, the fact that it came up at all, was a good indicator that something was wrong. He wasn't an idiot—Dean knew there were no gray zones when it came to the supernatural. They never led to good. They had to be taken out. And, yet, he couldn't quite work up the will to want it dead…deader. If anything…It scared Dean to consider it, but he was kind of disappointed the bear was gone.

Dean let his eyes close, his breathing evening out. Christ, he was tired. He could fall asleep right here and forget the rest. It would—

"_Dean?_ Dean!"

He shook awake. No, _scratch that_, someone shook him awake. He opened his eyes to find Sammy leaning over, his floppy hair hanging in his red-rimmed eyes. Dean mentally added _get Sam a haircut _to his to-do list.

"Dean! I've been looking for you for almost _three hours!_ It's already getting dark. Are you okay? I told Principal Hester you were out hanging with some friends so he wouldn't get upset, but I didn't know where you were and… Are you okay?"

"I'm…" Dean paused to consider "…okay."

Dean pushed himself up with one arm, Sam holding a hand against his back to help him into a sitting position, but instead of the movement sating his worried little brother, it seemed to work him into a frenzy.

His voice came out pitched. "What the hell happened to you, Dean?"

Dean groaned. "'Nuthin', Sammy, I'm fine. And watch your language." Sam huffed, which sounded about like Sam, so Dean gave a drunken smile. "Help me up?"

But Sam didn't. "What. Happened. To. You."

Like Dean didn't hear him the first time. He shrugged, then realized what he must look like, face and body covered in dirt, shirt shredded in the front and back, and—

Sam, having grown up in a motel room with his brother, had no sense of personal space unless it was his own being violated. He'd already lifted the front of Dean's shirt, sucking in a quick breath at the sight of the scratches beneath. Only, now that Dean looked, they weren't scratch marks anymore. Or, at least, not _just _scratch marks. The welt had spread out into the shape of a massive paw. A bear paw. The skin was tender when Sam's fingertips grazed it.

"The bear's real. I know you weren't lying about it." There wasn't a question in Sam's voice, but it still put Dean on edge. "I tried to call Dad from the secretary's phone in the office, but he didn't pick up."

That washed the weariness right out of Dean's system. He shot up onto his legs, towering over his brother. "You _what?"_

"Dean, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you when you said you saw it." Sam looked it, too. His lips were at a pout, eyes wet with anger. "But you shouldn't have tried to start a hunt by yourself. You could have died. I had to call Dad—but his stupid butt wasn't even there!"

"I wasn't hunting, Sammy!" Dean, seeing how stiff Sammy's shoulders had become—a sure sign that tears or fists were on their way—scooped him into a one-armed half-hug, the kind he used to beg for when they were younger. _Not hurt. Heal. _He hoped his brother didn't feel the shiver run over his skin when the words played back through his head, leaving him with an image of a bear hug. "I wasn't hunting," he repeated. "I was just making sure I wasn't going nuts. You know, more nuts than I already am."

Sam pulled away and rolled his eyes. "You're not. But I guess you figured that out." He waved at the tattered shirt. "Mrs. Queen let me use the internet in the library. It took me for_ever_, and she hung out the whole time, treating me like a little kid or something, but I found some stuff."

Dean raised a brow. "You mean people outside of Belgreen know about the Belgreen Bear?"

"Well, no…" Sam shrugged. "I heard about it before. What I did learn from Mrs. Queen was that apparently it's not all legend, because sometimes black bears wander into this part of Alabama, but the bear from the legend was a _grizzly_, and it wasn't from around here. She said the story started with this old newspaper article. See, Belgreen used to be the a lot bigger, back in the late eighteen hundreds. Like, it was the main city in the county. And, around the 1920s, this circus was coming through to visit, the Vanhatalo Circus, and they had this really bad wreck on the old train tracks. Some of the animals escaped and were shot by the locals. One of the animals was their famous bear performer Tuju, a grizzly. He was reportedly shot, too, but he wondered off somewhere, probably to die."

"Huh." Dean bit down his smile. God, his brother was scary good at getting info for an eleven-year-old. When he wasn't asked to get it, that was. "Then what did you find on the computer?"

Sam hesitated a moment. "Well, I was looking up stuff on animal spirits, but I could only find this one website." He stared out at the woods, as if he expected the bear to appear out of nowhere. "Can we talk about this at the Hesters' house? You look really cold."

"Sam." Dean stood firm, or he tried to. He teetered on his feet a moment before catching himself. Sam pushed short body under his brother's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist.

"Sam…I don't think this bear's…" Dean didn't know how to finish that sentence. Because he had no clue if the bear was going to hurt them, and that not-knowing factor _should _have freaked him out more. _Shit, maybe I'm under its damn spell or something. _"Can animal spirits make you do things?"

Sam stared up at him, his eyes alight with fresh fear, and Dean realized it was a bad idea for him, supernatural-expert /awesome big brother to be asking a question about the supernatural.

Dean chewed his lip. "Because I swear I'm craving honey."

Sam wasn't fooled by the joke. "Dean, I think…I read about this thing the Iroquois Native Americans called 'bear sickness'…"

"Sam, the bear's not making me sick. It's a spirit. It's haunting the place, that's it."

"Yeah, that's what you'd say if you were under the influence of 'bear sickness'. I'm serious, Dean. They say its spirit can make people do things they don't want to do. Can make them sick if they resist. Sick enough to lash out and get angry."

"Well, all the shamans used to think spirits caused every illness around, okay, Sammy?" Dean realized he was snapping and stopped. "It's just a haunting, alright? Me and you, we can look for the bear's remains or we can sit it out—either way, we don't need to call Dad back. He's busy on his own hunt and this isn't urgent."

Sam frowned in obvious disagreement. "Whatever."

"I mean it, Sam. If I think we need Dad, I'll call him, but otherwise this can wait."

Dean didn't even get an answer that time. He sighed. _Not kill. Protect_. _Yeah, that was appropriate mantra for little brothers you're tempted to strangle, alright. _"Let's get back to the house."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _Supernatural_, and I am making no profit from this story.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

* * *

When it came to school, Sam tried sticking to the rules, but when it came to hunting, his dad and brother had told him on several occasions that saving lives was more important. So, when he'd spotted the book in the reference section, he'd barely hesitated before sneaking it into his backpack—Mrs. Queen wouldn't let him check out a reference book, no matter how much she liked him. His plan had been to read it as soon as he left the school, but Dean had been missing…Then, afterward, he'd felt like he was tip-toeing around the subject.

Despite what he said in the woods, Dean refused to talk about the bear when they made it back to the Hester home. It was fully dark by then, and even though it wasn't even seven yet, Dean had gone to bed, not giving his brother a chance to ask his questions. Sam knew when he was being blown off, but instead of demanding answers, he decided to get some on his own.

At the Hester house, the boys didn't have to share a room, which was cool, even if that mean Sam was stuck in Ed's daughter's old room—still a pepto shade of pink, despite the fact that she hadn't lived in it for years. Sam had played quiet until the couple went to bed, then turned his lamp back on, reading in silence for the next few hours.

The book was about animal folklore, and it had no place in a tiny library in an equally tiny county school. Sam had been in enough school libraries to know as much, so he couldn't help but wonder if maybe the book had been bought with the Belgreen Bear in mind. If the spirit had tried to reach out to other students in the past, then maybe someone else had caught on to the fact that it was a spirit. Only, if that was the case, why didn't Mr. Hester tell their dad the school had a supernatural problem? And why didn't the spirit hurt more people over all this time?

Why had it picked Dean?

Sam lowered the heavy book down on this bed and wiped the sleep out of his eyes. His vision was getting too blurry to read, but that was okay since he'd already long-since finished the parts on bear lore—there was way more than he expected to find. Too much. Sam didn't know how much was make-believe or just based on old religious rights and how much was useful. There was so much on shamans and bear celebrations and totems…The stories about the Finnish honoring and sacrificing bears was just weird, but Sam didn't know if any of that was actually helpful. Dad had never even mentioned there being animal ghosts before...Did salt even work on them like it did other ghosts?

Sam's eyes shot to his window seal. Mrs. Hester had just smiled awkwardly when the boys had laid down the salt lines, but she hadn't disturbed them, as far as he knew. He felt a chill run over his skin—he hadn't checked Dean's room, and his brother had looked too dead on his feet to look himself.

Sam crawled out from under the throw blanket, tossing his steno-pad onto the folklore book, his sock-clad feet nearly silent as he slipped across the room and out the door into the hallway. He craned his neck, looking for lights down the staircase, but Bernie and Ed were still in bed. Dean was just one room down. He winced when the door hinge whined and snuck inside quickly, in case the old people checked out the sound.

He half expected his brother to be awake when he shut the door behind him, and the apology was almost out of his mouth before his eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw that the lump on the bed hadn't even twitched. Sam snapped his mouth shut again, and stepped up to the closest window, checking the salt line—untouched.

He made a face, mentally chiding himself for being so paranoid, and then turned back to his brother. Dean still hadn't moved, but he had made a sound, just enough to announce that he was still in the bed. It was a soft whistling noise.

Sam followed the stream of moonlight back to the side of the bed—it was a big mattress, bigger than the doubles most motel room had, but his brother was curled to one side, as if he still thought he was sharing with someone. Normally, Dean liked to sleep on his belly, but he was propped up a bit on a stack of two pillows instead, his head tilted back, as if he were trying harder to breath, and his cast-clad arm laying across his stomach.

He looked pale. Sam knew that was a stupid thought, since it was too dark for him to really tell, but that didn't stop him from shivering. Before he realized what he was doing, he reached out, putting his fingertips against Dean's forehead. His skin was clammy, cool, not hot, but Sam didn't feel any relief because that pitched whistle had sounded again, from between Dean's lips.

His brother was wheezing. It was getting worse, the "bear sickness"—Sam didn't believe for a minute it was anything else. Right then, he wanted to shake Dean awake and demand to know what had happened out in the woods, but he didn't. Instead he walked to the foot of the bed and crawled into the wide open space on the other side.

Dean still didn't stir, and Sam settled in beside him, staring at his brother's profile set aglow in the moonlight.

_Why Dean?_

The bear had picked out a few other students, just a few over the years, and they'd gotten sick, but Sam wondered why the spirit had picked them. Sam thought maybe it had to do with the bear totem, what the bear represented…Strong of heart, strong of will. Maybe that's why it had chosen his brother, because he was strong. Or maybe because Dean needed to be strong again.

Sam let his eyes drift shut, forgetting the question and its answer.

* * *

John had learned a lot about building proper funeral pyres over the past decade. It was a scary skill, one used by madmen who wanted to get rid of evidence in entirety, not average American dads, but it was a skill, nevertheless. The secret was knowing the proper ingredients for a long burning, hot enough flame. John was making sure he followed his own instructions to a T this time.

The skinwalker, because that's what it was in essence, despite its fancy Aztec title, had been a bitch to put down. He'd spent a full night, into early morning, chasing it down and being chased down until he got it positioned into the trap he'd laid for it. From there, it was a matter of making sure his aim was true enough to knock it off its feet and putting his machete to good use. It wasn't until he'd already worked the cat's head from its body that he realized it was male.

And the proof that it wasn't just a panther came away on his hands in the form of big clumps of fur that sloshed off with the hide, revealing tan, human flesh beneath. He didn't want to be around when it finished shedding completely. He didn't want to see the person who'd done this to themselves. So, he'd worked like a man possessed to get the pyre ready. It was more effort than he usually used on supernatural creatures, but it was important to destroy it completely, not just because of its power…His boys were just a few hours away, and if this turned out to be an upstanding member of the community, then the police would be on him, the stranger, before he could get out of town.

"Dad's comin' home, boys," he said, hoping the promise found them. It was time to face them in person, make sure they were okay. Be there for them like he so often wasn't. Maybe it wasn't too late to fix this one thing.

He turned his back on the ashen, smoldering remains of the Nagual, and hopped in the Impala, ready to break the speed limit to get back to his motel and pack up. A few hours of rest and he'd head north and take advantage of Bernie Hester's cooking.

He remained completely unaware of the creature hunched low in the high, dead grass against the drive. But it watched him carefully, hearing his parting words for what they were—the oath of a father. She understood his need to return to family well because she herself was a mother, and a teacher, for the Nahuales talent was one learned from the generation before. Much as a hunter's skills.

She prowled up to the pyre as if its scent stung her nose. The herbs the man had used wouldn't allow her to paw through the remains of her son. She let out a high, whip-lash cry, and turned her gaze back to the path the car had driven down.

She had killed in anger before, when those people had promised to take away her land, but never had she felt true rage until now. She would follow this man, find those little hunters to which he returned, and she would carry their spirits in the pit of her belly. Then, perhaps, their father would understand her pain.

* * *

_The moonlight fell at his back, casting a shadow across his features. But the ghost stayed in place, staring inside his home as if it were new to him. Dean could feel his gaze, even if he couldn't see it._

_Dean, back pressed against the wall, choked the sawed-off in his arms, prepared to use it, but he knew that it wouldn't be necessary, not from inside the semi-circle. He was safe here; his father said he was safe here, and Dad's word was without dispute._

_"Dean?"_

_The whispering voice belonged to a young man. Which fit the story. Dad had said the ghost would be a boy, a Will Whitfield, dead for a decade, and that if Dean were there in his house, as bait, he'd be drawn out. Dean's job was simple: stay put. Once the ghost appeared, it would be too distracted by the temptation of a new victim to realize John was out in the woods, digging up the box of baby teeth the Whitfield boy's mother had buried out back before her own death._

_It, the box of teeth she'd mentioned in her journal, was supposed to be a tribute to her lost son, a child who'd burned to death in the house that had once stood in place of her new home, and even though Dad hadn't said so, Dean figured the woman knew her son had stuck around. Maybe Will hadn't killed before because he'd been satisfied with her presence. Maybe that's why he kept taking children now, so he wouldn't be so lonely without his mother there to play with him. Maybe he thought if he killed enough, one of them would stay with him._

_The thought made Dean sick to his stomach, but he took a calming breath, kept his stance strong. A hunter wasn't allowed to waver. Dean knew it should frighten him, being alone in the old house, being bait, but somehow it was a comfort to know that Will Whitfield was here instead of out there with his dad._

_"Dean, is that you?"_

_The voice was clearer, less hushed, and Dean's heart leapt up into his throat when the question sunk in. The figure in the doorway took a step forward, confirming what Dean had feared. The face, streaked with moonlight, was pale, but alive, and wearing a bemused smile._

_"Man, I knew you here! I was riding my bike past and saw your dad's car, so I figured—"_

_"Chris?" Dean shook off his shock, carefully stepping over the salt line to grab his friend's arm. Christopher stared, still confused, and jerked out of his grip. "What the hell are you doing here?"_

_"Why do you have a gun?" Christopher asked, softly. Fear lit his eyes as he stared at the weapon. "Why were you sitting in the dark with a gun?"_

_It was wrongly placed, his fear, but Dean didn't have time to explain that to him. He lunged forward, grabbing a handful of the boy's t-shirt and yanking him closer."Chris, get over here, now!"_

_For a split second, Dean thought Christopher had tugged free again, but then he realized that it wasn't his friend moving back. Something had shoved him. Before he could react, the shotgun was wrenched from his grip by an invisible force, and Dean flew through the air, the force slamming him back into the wall he'd been perched at for an hour. The plaster on the wall cracked, softening the blow, but it held no grip on him, and he fell straight onto his outstretch arm. There was a snap and give at his elbow, the sharp pain graying his vision._

_Dean cried out, barely recognizing his own voice, but it was swallowed, the sound of it, by a fresh scream. Ignoring the throb in his arm, he looked up, frozen as he watched a spray of blood land on the floor, right outside the curved line of salt._

_It was too late. Too late to make a move. Too late to save the day. Too late to do anything but just lay there._

_Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could un-see what the ghost had just done, needing to forget that look of horror on Christopher's lifeless face. He let out a sob of anger, cradling his arm, and sucked in a few scattered grains of salt. But the world around him went quiet._

This wasn't what was supposed to happen next. Dean could remember every second of that half hour he'd spent behind the salt line, waiting for the ghost to finally explode into flames, for his father to come back, for Christopher to pull himself off the floor. One of those things never happened, but the rest… The time in between was not quiet. It was full of wet sounds and laughter from Will Whitfield. The ghost never stopped begging Dean to come out, to come join him... and Christopher.

_"We could be friends…"_

But, the memory broke away there, and Dean blinked up, seeing himself still in that house. Empty of the dead and any evidence of their existence. The floor was still lit with the moon's glow—no...not moonlight. Sunlight. White and distance. It was morning light shining in past the curtains.

It took him another moment to realize he was in a bed in the Hesters' home, not on the floor of the Whitfield house.

Throat aching, Dean tried to swallow and couldn't. The sensation of choking sent a shiver down his spine, and he slipped out from under the covers, finding his feet and stifling his wheeze with clenched teeth. He glanced back at the stack of pillows, noticing another form in the bed. Sam lay there, still asleep, mouth agape, too-long bangs almost covering his closed eyes.

Dean hadn't remembered him coming into the room.

He ran his hand down over his face, trying to push down the pressure building in his chest, in his throat, behind his eyelids. It didn't help. A streak of tears slid down his cheeks, unhindered by the anger they brought with them. He stared out the window beside the bed, looking to the woods, but no one was looking back.

Christopher was dead. Christopher was dead, and it was his fault. Even his dad thought so.

Dean wanted it to go away. All of it.

An ache ran up his arm, reminding him of how pathetic he'd felt, laying there, just staring at his friend's body, unable to help. Fifteen, grown, and a hunter, but he couldn't do a damn thing right then. The cast was constantly reminding him: He was weak. He was broken.

Without another thought, he raised up his cast and slammed it down on to the window seal. The back of his forearm hit the hard edge, sounding with a dull _thud_, and the plaster cracked but didn't crumble like he'd hoped. The blow jarred his fractured bone. Dean winced, biting his lip at the pain, but slammed it down again, until he could hear another crack. But, it stayed in place.

He was too weak, too weak to break it. Too weak. Not strong, no matter what the stupid bear—

"Dean?"

Sam was up in a shot, scrambling across the bed to push his brother away from the window. Dean gave him a shove back to the mattress, scratching at the bandages to try and find a hold. A rip sounded, but the cast remained in place.

Sam's eyes widened. "Dean, you'll hurt your arm!"

"I want it _gone_," Dean growled, frustrated. "I want it _off. _I fuckin' hate this!_"_

Sam reached out, grabbing Dean's good wrist with both of his hands. Dean moved to shake him loose, but hesitated, seeing the wide-eyed expression on his brother's face. Fear. Dean knew that look well by now. He stopped, catching a breath he hadn't realized he'd lost. His chest ached. His whole right side ached. The weariness that had dropped him earlier was back again, tugging at his eyelids.

The room went quiet.

"Dean…" Sam shook his head, processing that the storm was over. Slowly, he loosened his grip, letting his big brother's arm drop, but he stayed put, ever cautious. "Why'd you do that to your cast? Did you…I mean, does it hurt? Are you hurt?"

Dean felt like a rock was lodged in his throat. He couldn't speak. Couldn't explain. "Don't need it," he finally managed.

Sam sighed, stepping closer. "Did you see the bear again?"

It was like a slap across the face. Dean pursed his lips, annoyed. "It's not the bear, Sammy," he snapped. "That's got nothing to do with this."

"Dean, 'bear sickness'—"

"Shut up about the stupid bear sickness!"

Sam glanced at the door, warning him that he was being too loud, then shook his head. "Fine. But if that's true, why won't you tell me what happened in the woods, yesterday? You were gone for hours."

"I don't remember, Sammy. I just woke up out there and..."

"The bear left that welt on your stomach, Dean. Did it do anything else?"

Christ the kid was bossy. Dean shook his head. "Don't you have to get ready for school or something?"

Sam made a face. "It's Saturday."

Dean felt like they'd just gotten here; his days spent out in the woods were all a blur. Just as panic was about to sweep over him again, that warmth, like sunshine on his face, settled over him, calming him down. The bear was calling him. He understood that now. It wanted him outside, but this time it wasn't going to pull him out against his will.

Dean moved without looking his brother in the eye, ignoring Sam as he rattled off his concerns in that I'm-eleven-but-smarter-than-you voice he'd been perfecting, and pushed past to shove his feet into the boots at the end of his bed. His sweats bunched up above the cuff, but Dean didn't feel he had the time to change pants, or out of his t-shirt for that matter. After a second's hesitation, he reached into his near-empty duffel and found a sheathed, small iron knife to slide into the top of his cast.

"I'm going for a run," he bit, all he could manage while that warmth was pushing him forward, and stomped out his bedroom door. He could hear Sam scrambling to follow and picked up speed, taking the steps two at a time.

"Dean, stop!"

Dean was pretty sure Sam had shouted that last part loud enough for Bernie and Ed to hear, no matter where they were in the house, but, as much as he wanted to do just that, to stop and turn back, he couldn't. He refused, he _refused_, to break down in front of his little brother again—he couldn't afford to be that person, to be weak in his eyes.

_Not weak. Strong._

_Teach you._

Dean heard the message, but wasn't sure the lesson could take. Still, he didn't want to fight the warmth covering him, because it was so much better than the cold. And, hell, he wasn't even sure if he could fight it.

He ran out the front door, not feeling the cool air hit him, or hearing the sound of the Impala's engine as it rolled into the driveway. His focus was entirely on the forest ahead of him, on the spirit waiting just beyond, not the shadow who would follow him inside.

* * *

The scent of smoke was still on him when he turned into the Hesters' driveway.

John had meant to get a bit of sleep before heading back, but the coffee he'd put away during the hunt was still running through him, leaving him tired but too restless to take advantage of the few hours he had left in the motel. He'd expected the boys might still be asleep, since meds always hit Dean hard, and if his eldest slept through his usual morning training time, his youngest was sure to follow by example, so he was somewhat surprised to see the front door of the house open and Dean shoot out at a hard walk so quick it could have been a run.

John slid the Impala into park, brow raised in surprise when he realized his boy was wearing short sleeves—the air outside the car was as cold as a witch's teat—and there was something off about the shape of the cast on his right arm. Easing the door open, he stepped out of the car, but not quick enough. Dean had curved off toward the woods and disappeared past a wall of briars without ever looking up to notice his arrival.

Before he could question it, the Hesters' screen door snapped shut again as Sam rushed out, still in his PJs and an unzipped coat, tennis shoes untied and his hair a mess. The boy scanned the treeline, then noticed the Impala and ran down the front steps toward him.

"Dad!"

John's exhaustion evaporated in an instant. That look of worry on Sam's face was never good. "What's going on, Sammy?"

"Dad, I think Dean's in trouble. Did you see which way he went?"

John reached out, grabbing his boy by the shoulders to keep him from taking off. "Why do you think he's in trouble—what happened while I was gone?"

Sam chewed his bottom lip, as if weighing his options. John didn't like that one bit, because it meant one of his boys had done something they'd probably get in trouble over. But he didn't have time to concentrate on that, because he saw where Sam's gaze had ventured, to the trunk. To the weapons—_because Dean was in trouble_.

John kept his voice even, despite the panic curling in his guts. "Tell me what happened."

Sam nodded to himself, standing a bit taller. "There's a bear spirit in the woods, and Dean's seen it a couple times. I think it's making him sick. And now he's out there, and it could get him, Dad—it could be getting him _right now_."

"Animal spirit?" John blinked, confused, but shook it off. "Grab the sawed-off, Sammy. You can tell me what you know on the way. We're going to get your brother."

* * *

It didn't take him long to find the bear, but by the time he did, he was out of breath. He wasn't sure how far he was from the house, but, at some point, he'd started to run, and not toward the school. He was deeper in the woods than he'd been those other days, when he'd wandered, searching for the spirit. The difference was, this time he knew exactly where to go.

The bear had brought him here for a reason.

Exhaustion left him quaking, ready to fall over, but he stood in place, watching the beast sitting in the small clearing. Its fur glistened in the bright sunshine—Dean hadn't seen it like this before, in the light. It seemed even bigger than before, even more intimidating and solid than a ghost should, but it cocked its head, watching him.

Dean took a step closer, until only about ten feet separated the two of them, and paused, staring into those warm brown eyes. "My brother says people used to call you Tuju. You were in a circus, right?"

The bear didn't open its maul, but a slight grunt of affirmation escaped. It pushed itself up onto its four legs, body swaying from side to side lazily as it took a step forward to meet him.

Dean's instinct was to run, but he stayed in place, swallowing hard as it closed the distance between them. "I think I know what you want now…But I don't understand why you chose me. I can't be what you want me to be."

The bear paused, cocking its head. _Teach you._

"I'm really not a good student, dude." Dean tried to grin back. "Just ask any of my teachers."

_Not hurt. Heal._

The bear lurched its weight back, pushing itself up onto hind legs. Dean stared up, wide-eyed, at the creature looming high, its maul now three feet above him, but before he could move back, massive arms wrapped around him. Dean pushed out, trying to get away from the bear before it could fall forward, but long claws tapped against his back, warning him to stay put. Dean breathed into the thick fur, his breath coming no easier than before. But then, maybe that wasn't what the bear was trying to heal.

Dean leaned into the creature, digging his fingers into its cool, matted chest as the memories flooded his mind, of Christopher. Of laying still. Of being useless.

_Heal._

Dean felt a tear roll down his cheek, and he slid his hand up between them, swiping it away. He squeezed his eyes shut and saw an image there, as if it had been burned into place, of Sammy leaning back onto the big boulder at their spot, a book tucked under his nose, a small grin on his face as if he had not a care in the world. Because he knew his brother was nearby.

Sammy.

_"What if had been Sammy?"_

Dean remembered asking that question, to himself, as he lay in the Whitfield house, staring at Christopher's body. His father had heard it and had looked down at him, angry. Because he'd probably been thinking it too.

But it wasn't Sammy. Sammy was still alive, and that meant Dean couldn't afford to be a disappointment. Couldn't afford to be broken anymore. Sammy needed him to heal; Sammy needed him to be strong.

The bear made a rumbling sound, like the idling motor of the Impala. It was pleased. Dean didn't know how he knew that, but he did. A moment later, Tuju took a lumbering step back and eased down onto all four paws again, still making that content sound.

Dean let out a shallow breath, feeling more awake than he had in days. His arm ached—_Christ did it ever_—and his chest still felt like it had taken a beating, but his head was clearer, focused. And then he froze as he heard a sound, the snap of a breaking branch behind him. He turned his head, half expecting to see Sam there, watching.

Instead, a big cat, _a friggin' panther_, at least six feet from head to tail, stood there, holding its head low between its shoulders. The fur of its coat was a deep, intense black but lightened in spots to form outlines of almost circular shapes, rosettes. Sammy had made him watch enough nature shows for him to faintly recognize the shape of its build, the cleft down its forehead, the flatness of its nose—it looked like a jaguar. Only jaguars weren't supposed to be in Alabama. And there was something unnatural about its almond-shaped eyes, something human about them.

It opened its mouth and let out a roar that was somewhere between a cough and a growl before its muscles went tight, preparing to leap.

"Shit…" Dean froze in place, carefully easing his short iron knife out of his cast as he tried to process that this wasn't some screwed up dream, but the cat wasn't waiting for his brain to catch up.

As soon as its front paws left the earth, a wall of brown moved past his peripheral, its speed pushing him to the ground. He rolled out of the way just as the grizzly met the jaguar mid-jump, and the two beasts fell into a heap of fur and teeth and claws. Dean scrambled back up to his knees, but one of the cat's claws snagged the heel of his boot, yanking him back down to the earth. The jaguar let out a trebled screech a split second later as it was knocked aside by a heavy blow from the grizzly.

The bear opened its maul wide and let out a high, pulsing threat.

Dean watched the two tumble for a moment before the limping jaguar slid free of the fray, getting its distance in preparation for another attack.

The boom of the rifle came second to the spray of blood and gray matter from the side of the jaguar's temple. The cat stared at its prey a moment longer before it collapsed down onto the patch of grass, going still. A second later, Dean watched his Dad and Sam appear from the woods, John's rifle still raised in preparation to make a second shot. Dean followed his aim with his eyes and pushed himself up to his feet.

"Stop!"

The shout, perhaps simply the shock of it, was enough to give John paused, and Dean shook his head, moving to step beside the grizzly. The creature was only just making it back up onto his legs, but it didn't move forward, only turning its head to stare from the newcomers to Dean.

"You don't have to shoot it," Dean said, holding a hand out to graze the bear's fur. "It's a spirit—it won't hurt it much, anyway. Not if you don't have its remains."

Dean was hoping his logic was sound, because he knew from the hardened look in both his brother and his dad's eyes that they were prepared to fire. He couldn't explain it to either of them. He couldn't get it across that the spirit wasn't trying to hurt him, so he didn't try. Dean turned back to the bear, frowning at the open expression on its face.

"Dean, get back from it," his father warned.

Sam lowered his weapon. "Dean...please."

"Listen—I know what you brought me here for," Dean said, hoping the words were too soft for his family to hear. "I know you wanted to teach me—Sammy's not the only one who knows how to research. I know what the lore is about bears. And about shaman. I understand, but I can't be what you wanted to make me into. Humans aren't supposed to..." His voice broke off, and he shook his head. "I'm a hunter, and I have a dad to teach me what I need to know. You need to move on. That's why you brought me here, isn't it? You were kept in a cage your whole life and now you need to be let free."

The bear grunted bowing its head against Dean's open palm and then stepping back out to the edge of the clearing. Dean followed it, hearing Sam and John behind him, keeping close. The grizzly kept walking, but its image faced away, disappearing into nothingness, and at that spot, Dean could the wide, decaying length of a fallen oak. Scattered around it were stained bones, a fanged skull propped against the wood, sunken into decades' worth of fallen leaves and displaced earth.

"There. He's there."

He felt a wide hand press against his back and leaned into his father's touch. "We'll need to burn it with the skinwalker."

Skinwalker, the jaguar…Dean heard a voice on the wind, telling him about balance, about good finding bad and bad finding good, about how choosing to be one would always lead to finding the other, but his family didn't need to know about the bear's final lesson, so he stayed quiet, simply nodding.

He felt his brother before he saw him, standing awkwardly a few feet away. "Are you okay?"

Dean smiled back at him, and Sam read the expression clearly, stepping forward to wrap him in a hard bear hug. It had healing qualities, he was pretty damn certain. Not that he'd ever tell his brother as much. "Enough with the girly stuff, squirt," he said, but didn't push him away.

"You're freezing, son." John sat the rifle down against the tree and slipped his leather jacket off, to wrap around Dean's shoulders. "Why don't you keep that—you've outgrown your old one."

Warmth, covering him, blocking out the cold. It wasn't the bear's doing this time, and he didn't need it to be.

* * *

"_Who trusted God was love indeed  
And love Creation's final law  
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw  
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed"_

* * *

**Story End Notes:**

*Bear vs. Jaguar—John Winchester wins. Take that Chuck Norris.

*So, I did tons of research on bear totems and spirituality, and barely used any of it. However, the lore on Nahuales (Nagual), I'd studied earlier for some original fiction I'm writing, which also pertains to the sightings of big black cats in the Alabama area. In cryptozoology, these types of cats are sometimes referred to as ABCs or Alien Black Cats ("alien" meaning that they aren't where they're supposed to be found, like other cryptids).

*As I told my writing buddy about writing for wee!Sam, "He's not an eleven year old, he's Sam Winchester. He's my Hermione Granger, my info-dump guy."


End file.
